


Berry Cider

by giuseppimezzoalto



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuseppimezzoalto/pseuds/giuseppimezzoalto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more social members of the Awakening crew bond over booze at Satinalia. M!Warden thinks on his relationship with Zevran, Anders relentlessly tries to get frisky with Nathaniel, Sigrun is amused and Oghren is... Oghren. Written for the 2012 Dragon Age Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Berry Cider

There was, Rilien considered to himself as he pattered through the extensive stretches that were the corridors of Vigil’s Keep, a certain charm in the winter festival of Satinalia. This time of year made everything seem just that little bit warmer. The glow from the mounted torches bounced off the masonry, bathing the carpeted floors in a warm glow that his shadow cut through as he made his way to the Vigil’s Great Hall, following the wafting murmurs of distant bantering coupled with the occasional rambunctious laugh and one loud belch from whom the source was beyond a shadow of a doubt. The elf snickered at the sound of his Wardens’ revelry, a sound which over time had grown soothing to him - something of a comfort, bizarre as it was. The kind of thing that would be nothing but a headache for others was what eased  _his_ headaches. Morrigan telling Alistair how unfathomably stupid he was, Leliana’s probing of Sten’s inner ‘softie’. The same was just as true for his new travelling companions as of late. The rolling, lazy sound of half-hearted insults and fast exchange of japes, just the gentle assurance that yes, we are still here and we can still laugh. It was what had kept him going through the Blight. Well, that and Zevran.

The thought of his assassin made his stomach curl in an indescribable kind of way, it always did, and Rilien was never quite sure whether it was from feelings of extreme joy or deep sorrow. Neither of them had ever imagined that what started as a desperate need not to be left in the dark and alone - with only the distant roars of hurlocks and genlocks for company - could ever become what it had. And yet with the blossoming of love had come such painful responsibilities. Rilien had never known the true pain of separation until Zevran. It was an awful, incomplete feeling – he could laugh and joke and smile just as sincerely as ever before, and yet there was a hole in him that just seemed utterly unfillable, no matter how much fun and laughter he tried to fill it with. A part of him that was always missing, dare he say, painfully cliché as it sounded. A constant ache.

Still, there was no use in getting sentimental. Zevran would always have his heart, wherever either of their travels took them, and it was as simple as that. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that his Antivan would never want him to spend Satinalia with a face like a cat’s arse because he was without him. With this in mind, he shrugged off his chestplate as he rounded the final corner, dumping it on a long table and entering the hall in his undershirt. It seemed odd to wear armour among their little group of misfits, as if he was expecting one of them to stab them in the back. Then again, Rilien wasn’t one to judge for attempted assassinations – how else would he have met Zev?

He was waved over by their dear resident dwarven alcoholic, who looked merrier than usual – as a matter of fact, all his companions did. It was hard for him to stifle a laugh at the sight of them. All sat round a table in dim firelight, various platters, bottles and chalices scattered about the surface. Anders was perhaps the most entertaining sight to behold: draped over a disgruntled Nathaniel’s lap like the Pearl’s finest whore in a manner that was nothing but ambiguous in intent, glowing with a (likely alcohol-induced) flush across the cheeks and grinning proudly to himself as if he had just single-handedly ended ten Blights. Nathaniel had a seemingly chagrined expression at his lapful of mage, though if Rilien knew (and by the creators, he knew well), the tightness of his lips coupled with his somewhat darkened cheeks and stiff posture said otherwise. Oghren looked the spitting image of debauchery, his eyes practically bloodshot from the copious amounts of alcohol consumed and his shirt partially unbuttoned, dangerously close to exposing meaty planes of hairy horror to the whole keep. Well, those still awake, anyhow. Which meant practically no-one. Even their newest addition had forsaken sleep to join the drunken revelry, albeit she was looking a little less… utterly smashed than certain members of the party, sat with Anders’ cat on her lap, snickering quietly at her comrades’ antics. Her hair was down and slightly all over the place, but that was the only sign of any potential drunkenness and either way, even if she was drunk, she was easily the least drunk at the table, and for that Rilien commended her.

“Anyone plan on making room?” the elf teased. “Or are you going to just have your poor weary commander stand up all evening?”

“Took your time! Even the Seneschal popped down for a drink earlier, where have you been all evening? Anyway, why not join me, Commander? I’d wager there’s room for at least ten on these thighs…” Anders practically purred, shooting the disgraced noble a sidelong grin and waggling his eyebrows, to which Nathaniel promptly choked in response, a fine mist of ale spraying up and over the rim of his raised cup. He gave Anders a hard stare that Rilien was certain would make the archdemon run back under the surface crying like an infant. The mage, however, didn’t even flinch, giving one of the aforementioned thighs a pinch and giving a sharp squeal of delight. “So  _firm_ …”

“By the creators, Anders, what have you been drinking?” Rilien spluttered, helpless to stop himself from creating a discordant harmony with Sigrun’s stifled giggling.

“Mm… ‘ll be damned if I can remember. Would you consider ‘a lot’ a valid answer?”

“Let me rephrase, then, what are you drinking  _now_?” The Warden Commander smirked, gesturing towards the silver flagon nearest the mage, balanced rather precariously on the very edge of the table. “Smells fruity.”

“ _Cider_ , my dear man, Cider,” Anders replied with a fox-like grin, raising the flagon with no small amount of joy.

“…it’s pink.”

“Flamboyant lot, those Orlesians, hm? I think it has some kind of berries in it, Maker be damned if I know, all I do know is that it’s  _divine_.”

“Works for me,” Rilien grinned, waving to a serving girl for a pint of his own. Thanking her as it was handed over, the Dalish elf studied the table. From Oghren’s cross-eyed obliviousness to Anders’ half-lidded admiration of his muscular shoulders, the atmosphere was… downright jolly. “I’m guessing by the generally high-seeming level of fun that our Fade Spirit and prickly sorceress won’t be joining us?”

“Wimped out, the both of ‘em,” Oghren drawled, looking up at his Commander despite his drooping head, the look in his eyes screaming out the fact he was barely able to keep them focused at all.

“I’m not sure that was quite the case, Oghren,” Nathaniel muttered, shifting the contentedly lethargic mage so that he could take another swig of ale. “Irrelevant of their drinking abilities, I’m not sure these kind of activities are… to their tastes, exactly.”

“Like I said, wimps.”

“I’m fairly sure their approach to the festive night is a great deal more… honourable than ours,” the Howe insisted, a small smile beginning to tug at the corners of his lips.

“Even Velanna?” Anders snorted, resting his head on Nate’s shoulder. “Justice is Justice – in other words, can’t  _help_ being a sadsack, but Velanna… even you have to admit, Nate, it was rather parochial of her not to join the fun.”

“I’m sure she has plenty of business to be getting on with, Anders,” the bowman chuckled, giving the mage’s ponytail a playful tug.

“Right…  _plenty to be getting on with_ ,” the blond repeated salaciously, to which Nathaniel, Sigrun and Rilien snorted.

“That was neither witty nor clever, Anders – don’t tell me that inebriation takes away that ‘charm’ of yours?” the elf teased, snickering at the brief look of panic that crossed the mage’s features.

“Just what are you saying about me, Commander? I thought we had a good thing going, you and I. Didn’t think it’d be long until we were painting each other’s toenails and discussing our boyfriends.” An alarmed glare from Nathaniel, ignored by Anders. “Which reminds me, you haven’t relented with the painstaking secrecy, and you said you would. I demand to know more of your rogue in shining armour.”

“There really isn’t much to say,” Rilien insisted, though he could already feel the fond smile creeping across his lips.

“I can get rid of Oghren, if that makes things any better?”

“I wouldn’t worry, Oghren and I ha–” he began, but the mage shushed him with a lopsided (read: drunken) grin and leaned towards the intoxicated dwarf.

“Psst. Oghren. Oghren.”

The dwarf’s head began a slow ascent until he was at eyeline with Anders, looking more plastered than Voldrik’s new walls. The mage leaned in close and glanced either way before whispering:

“Darkspawn.”

Immediately, the Berserker lurched to his feet, practically keeling over and sweeping an arm across the table in search of his sword. Knocking half the silverware to the ground, his hand closed around a spoon which he seemed to think would do and he let out an almighty roar, fisting his hands in his undershirt and pulling hard, exposing a veritable bush of red hair in a loud rip before charging forth towards the privies.

“Cough up, Sig,” Anders muttered, lolling his head in Sigrun’s general direction and waving his hand about, flexing long fingers eagerly “We’d see the ginger shrubbery before the night is out – that was my wager, was it not?”

Sigrun was still a few moments, flashes of alarm, disgust and resignation crossing her face all at once before she dropped two golden coins into the mage’s outstretched palm.

“Wow. I didn’t think even  _he_ would induce that kind of discomfort on everyone.”

“Wait till you see him on his bath day. Just ask the Commander.”

“Is anyone going to check on the poor fool?” Nathaniel asked, glancing in the direction of the door.

“Not me,” Sigrun grinned bringing her legs up and crossing them neatly on her chair, “I’m still waiting on the lowdown on the Commander’s Antivan heartthrob.”

“As am I. We can let him be, Nate, a few smashed up chamber pots are the least of Fereldan’s problems.”

“Tell that to the poor sod who has to clean up whatever was inside,” the noble smiled ruefully, shaking his head. He placed a tentative arm around the mage’s waist and leant back in the chair to get comfortable with Anders following suit, leaning into the bowman’s warmth against the chill of the Keep.

“Why do I feel like some great bard telling stories to a bunch of children?” Rilien sighed, but soon found himself smiling as he began to recant his and his lover’s meeting and subsequent escapades. True, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some manor in the middle of nowhere with endless food and time between him and Zevran. But it also wasn’t a tent in the freezing cold, alone in the dark listening to the distant howls that were indiscernible as wolves or Darkspawn.  It was far from perfection, but it was starting to feel like home. And that was one step closer to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Rilien belongs to http://renaissancedweeb.tumblr.com


End file.
